Spaniard's Seduction / Cole's Red-Hot Pursuit: Spaniard's Seduction. Brenda Jackson

Joshua said, “He’s a Devil Horse.”

      “Then call him Diablo, it’s better than Lady Killer,” Rafaelo suggested. He inclined his head to Alyssa. “I apologise for interrupting your account.”

      Caitlyn took over the story as Joshua placed a kiss on Alyssa’s temple. “When Joshua and Alyssa arrived back from their ride, Lady Killer…Diablo,” she amended at Rafaelo’s hard stare, “was in a right royal lather with those hoodlums in his paddock. They made a dash for it. At the roar of the motorbike, Breeze bolted.”

      “Alyssa fell badly and needed treatment for her hand,” Phillip added. “I’ll accept that particular incident might not have been the stallion’s fault, but what he did to Jim—trapping him in the corner of the stable—was downright mean. If anything like that happens again, I’m going to have him destroyed.”

      “Let me see what I can do with the horse first,” Rafaelo cut in.

      “Take care.” Phillip appraised Rafaelo’s height, his broad shoulders. “If you can master him, as far as I’m concerned you can have him.”

      Rafaelo looked startled. Then his features hardened into a determined mask. He started to say something, but paused as Kay entered the salon, Megan close behind her. With a frown Caitlyn noticed that Kay was wearing a dressy skirt. When had the dress code for these Thursday-night family dinners changed? The crease between her brows smoothed when she saw that Megan still wore work clothes.

      “Dinner will be another fifteen minutes,” Kay announced. “Looks like we’re all here.” Kay scanned the gathering. She barely glanced at Phillip and her expression clouded over as her gaze rested briefly on Rafaelo. Caitlyn sensed the older woman’s pain at being faced with such incontrovertible evidence of her husband’s infidelity. The lines around the older woman’s eyes had deepened since Rafaelo’s arrival—and the revelation of Phillip’s betrayal.

      “Amy’s not here,” said Caitlyn, more to distract Kay’s attention from Rafaelo than for any other reason.

      “No, she didn’t feel up to it.” Shadows shifted in Kay’s eyes. “It’s been quite a week.”

      That was an understatement. Kay must be thinking of Roland’s memorial service…of her dead son.

      “Heath hasn’t arrived yet. He’s late. Again.” Phillip’s tone was riddled with censure.

      Kay looked even more upset.

      In an effort to head off an argument between Phillip and Kay, Caitlyn said, “If his day was as crazy as mine, he probably finished work not long ago.” Her swift defence of Heath earned her a narrow-eyed stare from Rafaelo that caused her stomach to dip and roll.

      “He’s late. Stop making excuses for him, Caitlyn.” Phillip’s bushy eyebrows lowered. “Now, why don’t we sit down in comfort while we wait for my tardy son to arrive.” He gestured to the pair of sofas that faced each other. “Can I get anyone a pre-dinner drink?”

      Joshua collapsed into an armchair and Alyssa perched on the arm, while Megan settled herself in a navy brocade armchair that had always been Roland’s spot. A pang of sadness shook Caitlyn. Roland was sorely missed. Joshua must’ve had the same thought because his hand slid over Alyssa’s in a way that could only be described as comforting.

      Caitlyn made for one of the sofas.

      “Would you like a glass of sauvignon blanc or sherry?” Phillip asked Caitlyn.

      “Sherry, please.”

      Rafaelo sank down beside her on the sofa. Caitlyn stilled, instantly aware of his overwhelming, breathtaking masculinity. Then she turned to him and said in a cheerfully polite voice, “You must taste Flores Fino. It’s a Saxon’s Folly favourite.”

      “I’ll try the white wine.” Rafaelo’s lips were tight. “So, you call it sherry here, do you?”

      Uh-oh. Detecting tension, she picked her words carefully. “Habit. The label doesn’t refer to sherry—it describes it only as Flores Fino. But in the style what we produce is Spanish fino, based on—”

      “Based on?”

       Based on his great-uncle’s process.

      She shook her head and took a quick sip from the glass that Phillip handed her. Despite the sweetness of the amber liquid, her mouth tasted bitter. Rafaelo had come not only to seek vengeance on his mother’s behalf but also because he believed that Phillip had stolen his great-great-uncle Fernando’s journals. Yet after that dreadful confrontation in Phillip’s office, Phillip had pulled her aside to explain that he’d bought the journals from Maria before swearing Caitlyn to silence. He didn’t want Rafaelo getting his hands on the journals—or the magic methods they recorded.

      To her relief Rafaelo didn’t demand an answer. Instead he asked, “That is Flores Fino, yes?”

      Her heart thudding with anxiety, she ran her tongue over dry lips, her mind blank. Finally she nodded.

      “The first time I tasted Flores Fino—” Rafaelo nodded toward her glass “—I was, how do you say, blown away? It was what I had been trying to achieve for years. As a child my mother told me tales of the sherry my great-great-uncle had made. She tried to remember what she’d read in the journals.” He gave Phillip a dark look. “She’d jotted down some short notes in her diary, the notes of a history student, not a winemaker. But, helped by my fa—by the Marques—they gave me a start.”

      Caitlyn swallowed, distressed by the longing in his eyes.

      “I wanted to produce a fino sherry like that. A sherry that would’ve made my great-great-uncle proud.” An air of poignant longing clung to him. Then he shook himself and it vanished. “Instead I tasted that in France. Everyone was excited by the outstanding quality. It was like tasting the nectar of the gods. Perfection.” Rafaelo gave her a sidelong glance that made her heart sink still farther. “I noted the makers. Ross and Saxon. And admired—yearned for—their talent.”

      Caitlyn suspected she knew where this would end. “Rafaelo—”

      “But it wasn’t God-given talent, was it?” There was a rawness to his harsh tone. “I cannot tell you what I felt when my father—the Marques—revealed that my real father was Phillip Saxon.” His eyes were flat and empty, all the energy and spark gone. “It was as if the missing piece to the puzzle had been dropped into my lap. I hardly needed to hear the story that my mother wished to tell. Because I knew.”

      Caitlyn waited, dry-mouthed.

      “I knew instantly that the nectar I had tasted was too similar to the notes my mother had given me. I knew…” His voice trailed away as Phillip came closer. Looking from Caitlyn to Phillip, he asked with a hard edge, “So who is the expert then?”

      In the manner of a true academic Caitlyn had been fascinated by the leather-bound volumes. She’d fished the dusty journals off the bookshelves and had read them, cover to cover. It had fired her up. She had seen the possibilities.

      “I’ve always made sherry,” Phillip said, trying to look modest, and Caitlyn’s shoulders sagged. “Caitlyn worked with me when she first came, but once Heath left she had so much else to do.”

      For a moment annoyance at the dismissal of her role in establishing Saxon’s Folly as a top producer of fortified wines overcame her relief. Then she caught sight of the fury in Rafaelo’s face and she wanted to cry. Rafaelo believed Phillip’s skill came from Fernando’s journals—the very journals he believed Phillip had stolen from his mother. Phillip’s attitude would do nothing to dampen Rafaelo’s desire for revenge. Did Phillip not realise that far from establishing himself as a figure of admiration in Rafaelo’s eyes, he was simply alienating, enraging, his firstborn son more?

      Finally she compromised. Let Phillip have his pride, but she had to take responsibility, too. “Phillip has always been my mentor—it was something